An Elegy for Summer
This is euphoria: the art of painstakingly purging blistered and withered melanin. This is apocalypse: the wait, waiting and waiting for the tear of vapours, of sweat and oil. Summer is judgement season, death and resurrection.
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Gastroscopy/Obscurity
He entered the overcrowded room, empty,carrying a plastic bag of paraphernalia: half a liter of dextrose solution, anesthesia, needle, tube, bandage.
While waiting for his turn,
he couldn’t help but examine every detail of the space:
the blemished walls and ceilings, the debilitated fan, the dirt on the floor, the visual pollution.
He was trying to remember everything.
He killed time.
Time almost killed him.
Thirty minutes passed, the obnoxious-looking nurse finally called his name.
He laid on the dirty white bed as directed,
with no tinge of anxiety,
relishing every aspect of it: the pain of the injection, the rhythmic sound of the machine, the bitter chemicals in his throat, the flowing glucose in his veins, the artificial oxygen in his system,
the uncertainty.
A moment of vacuity.
He woke up only to find out the doctor’s obscure diagnosis:
a scratched stomach(or heart).
While waiting for his turn,
he couldn’t help but examine every detail of the space:
the blemished walls and ceilings, the debilitated fan, the dirt on the floor, the visual pollution.
He was trying to remember everything.
He killed time.
Time almost killed him.
Thirty minutes passed, the obnoxious-looking nurse finally called his name.
He laid on the dirty white bed as directed,
with no tinge of anxiety,
relishing every aspect of it: the pain of the injection, the rhythmic sound of the machine, the bitter chemicals in his throat, the flowing glucose in his veins, the artificial oxygen in his system,
the uncertainty.
A moment of vacuity.
He woke up only to find out the doctor’s obscure diagnosis:
a scratched stomach
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